Being There

If I could step into my dreams,
I would pull them apart,
set them all down in front of me
and space them out accordingly,
by time, location, worth.

They would sit there, staring at me,
the whole future of myself
in one space, wishes made real.

Then, asking the question,
"Where does the dream end
and real life begin?"

Maybe it is inside it,
having the courage
to step into that dream
and live it, past
the imperfections
that will see it
change into a dream
I don't remember having.

Or it is outside it completely,
watching it grow parallel to my own life,
watching the wish ascend
while I toil below it.

It is neither
maybe,
or somewhere in between.

Melancholy

Melancholy is the shadow
keeping the permafrost
frozen
as I walk
to the highest part
of the graveyard
and defy the inevitable.

Reacting to the news "Your Uncle has cancer"

It could have been better.
The news more like ink
dropped in a glass of water.
Slowly uncurling blackness
takes over. A part of my heart
is already dropping away
as if mourning for the future
could delay the present of mourning
that may not occur;
not yet.

You could still be there:
smiling dryly
quipping at your sisters
your voice like a pickup truck
wandering down a gravel road
dusty in the distance.

I might catch a glimpse
off your driver's side mirror
a sparkle of sun
through shimmering heat
to remind me you are not gone.
Not now.
Not yet.

Even better then
to think of you tuning my guitar
exchanging records
playing old songs on a porch by the river
in south Texas
like old men in south Texas used to.
Are we old men now, you and I?
Did you forget that we are still young?
That you and I have plans
to do that once again.
But not now.
Not yet.

Reacting to the news "Your Uncle has cancer"

It could have been better.
The news more like ink
dropped in a glass of water.
Slowly uncurling blackness
takes over. A part of my heart
is already dropping away
as if mourning for the future
could delay the present of mourning
that may not occur;
not yet.

You could still be there:
smiling dryly
quipping at your sisters
your voice like a pickup truck
wandering down a gravel road
dusty in the distance.

I might catch a glimpse
off your driver's side mirror
a sparkle of sun
through shimmering heat
to remind me you are not gone.
Not now.
Not yet.

Even better then
to think of you tuning my guitar
exchanging records
playing old songs on a porch by the river
in south Texas
like old men in south Texas used to.
Are we old men now, you and I?
Did you forget that we are still young?
That you and I have plans
to do that once again.
But not now.
Not yet.